


Wayward Sons

by ohtheway



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Explicit Language, Gen, Pre-Relationship, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtheway/pseuds/ohtheway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>Beware! Contains major spoilers for Seasons 4 and 5.</b>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dean's relationship with alcohol has gotten out of hand, and he's had more than just a passing thought of stepping out into the path of an oncoming bus. He knows it won't do any good, but he's falling to pieces and it's out of his control.</p><p>But there's a plan laid in place and it's inescapable, even for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wayward Sons

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place somewhere in early Season 5. 
> 
> Dean and Castiel are not together. This is a friendship (at most, developing into something more after the fic takes place) fic.

Rough wasn't the word for it. It went far, far beyond rough. Some days, he was surprised he was still standing. Every morning he woke up, outright stunned that the weight of the world on his shoulders and the elephant sitting on his chest still hadn't suffocated him in his sleep. And it was amazing that his liver hadn't shut down on him with the amount of alcohol he'd pumped through it in the past few months.

Considering the amount he'd drank since getting back from hell, what he really should have surprised him was the fact that he'd managed to double the intake.

But why not? Why not spend every single day drunk. It wasn't just saving people and hunting things anymore, that was for damn sure. Angels up his ass, demons up his brother's, a whole mess of people trying to get inside his head and pick him apart. He could close his eyes and see The Pit.

That alone was more than enough reason to drink.

He was so sick. So sick of feeling rubbed raw by existence, sick of feeling like the whole of his life was this great big ball of shit. No matter what he did, it was a mistake.

In hindsight, all of that was probably the reason he'd meandered here. Sam was off talking to Bobby about one thing or another. He'd been so relieved by it that he'd wandered out for air, beer in hand.

 _Walking down the street with a beer? You're that kind of guy, now?_ he'd thought to himself, glancing at the drink nestled comfortably in his hand. The sun hadn't even gone down.

Still, it hadn't really registered until a little old lady'd given him this look like he was marching down the street carrying a dead baby. Nearby, a pole-mounted street clock had proudly declared the time – and that's when it'd sunk in.

_**4:26 PM** _

Not even five o'clock, and he wasn't just public drinking – he was public drunk. Public drunk and meandering.

_F-A-N-T-A-S-T-I-C._

He'd dropped the beer into the nearest available trash can, playing it off as something he'd found rather than something he'd gone out with. It was a damn good thing he was still smart enough not to go anywhere near the Impala like this.

After swiping a hand down his face, he'd turned his gaze to the ground and continued to walk and walk. He'd never really been one for taking trips on foot, but the last thing he needed was Sam chewing him out about taking the Impala on some drunken joy ride.

He wasn't even remotely joyful.

Long after the sun had fallen, he was still walking. The phone in his pocket had probably gone off about fifty times, but he didn't bother to check it. Sam would know if something'd gone wrong and, really, he hoped something went wrong. He hoped that a bus would turn the corner and take him right out.

Truth be told, he wanted it done with, but he knew better. No one in Heaven was going to let him stay dead. Hit by a bus? He'd wake up five minutes later in one piece, right as rain, like nothing'd touched him at all. No problem for those winged pricks and their angel juice.

When his legs ran out of will, he'd glanced up and saw the biggest mockery of his pain that he'd ever seen. He'd wandered himself right up to a fucking temple.

“Are you serious?” he'd sworn under his breath. A goddamn temple. Of all the things. The last place he'd ever wanted to be. He couldn't escape it for even a minute. And still, something had pressed him to step inside.

That'd been an hour ago, that he'd settled himself into the back pew and sat staring at the massive painting of Christ behind the chancel. He couldn't stop staring, transfixed with something like anger and resentment brewing in his stomach.

And he got to thinking.

How was it that he and his brother had been born into this bullshit circumstance? Why had they been the ones to draw that straw? All he'd ever done was look out for other people. He'd done nothing but sacrifice what he wanted. His entire life had been lived for other people. And now they wanted to use him as their meat puppet, make him dance. He was supposed to be some angel's bitch, and kill his brother, just to save some world that would never even thank him.

It was such bullshit.

The tears started coming before he realized they were even there, a sudden coolness on his cheeks, drops falling onto his hands.

_Why's it got to be me?_

He heard the sound of feathers before he heard the voice, but he didn't turn. For some reason, he knew who it was.

“You shouldn't be in a temple, Dean. They're wired right to Heaven. Angels can hear all that takes place inside of one, whether you're masked from them or not.”

“Hello to you, too, Cas,” he croaked out, more tears slipping. Castiel had some spectacular timing. Furrowing his brow, he cleared his throat and tried to sound upbeat. “Will you be joining us for the midnight mass?”

“This is not a Catholic temple. It does not hold mass.”

His friend's footsteps echoed around the temple. He caught sight of the trench coat in his peripheral vision as Castiel lowered himself to sit in the pews. There was about a foot between them, and when Castiel spoke it sounded loud enough to fill the whole damn room.

“You are crying.”

“Very observant of you. Remind me to give you a cookie when we get back to the hotel.” He rubbed his eyes. Bantering with Castiel usually pissed him off, made him laugh, brought out his serious ass-kicking side – anything. Instead, he was dangerously close to bursting into tears.

_What are you, five? Get ahold of yourself._

“I do not want a dessert, Dean. I am very concerned for you.”

Concerned? He could've laughed.

There was no change in the delivery of Castiel's voice, as flat as ever, and he was sure that it was the same old line he'd heard a thousand times. Duty and obligation to the world, doing the right thing, being a righteous man. The same _righteous man_ that'd fucked up in the first place, breaking the first seal.

Being weak.

Really, he didn't want to hear it. Didn't want to be having this discussion at all. In fact, what he really wanted was his beer. He felt stupid for just dropping it into the trash.

His throat felt raw and tight when he tried to speak. “Well thanks for the concern, Cas, but I think I'm just fine.”

“Delivering yourself into the hands of Heaven is... Unlike you.”

He looked down at his hands, restraining a weak laugh. The alcohol was starting to drain from his system already, leaving him shaky. Perfect. He hadn't thought he'd drank enough for an addiction, but that was just fine. Just one more thing on his plate. 

_Don't worry, Dean can handle it._

He was so sick of handling it. So sick that when he opened his mouth to tell Cas he wanted to be alone, it started spilling out of him. All of it. Every word he'd ever thought on the matter. He hated himself for the way his voice hitched, hated himself for sounding so weak, hated himself for being so weak. Hated himself.

Of the biggest mistakes in his life, he knew this would be high up there. Spilling it all to some angel who couldn't even understand the concept of sleep. He'd regret it. He'd more than regret it. And to top it all off, his lungs weren't cooperating – almost gasping for breath every other word.

“I can't do this anymore,” he forced out, forcing himself to sound more in control than he actually was, swallowing hard before another wave of tears hit him. His eyes fixed on the massive painting of Jesus again. He hoped he'd shrink into a speck of dust and get lost in the cracks of the pews and disappear from everyone's mind.

That was something he could actually handle.

Worst of all, Cas hadn't said a damn thing. Not a single thing. He wasn't sure if he found it comforting or if it just upset him more.

He heard the angel give a quiet sigh from next to him - “I see.” - and he closed his eyes. He knew that tone of voice, that fucking I'm-disappointed-in-you, you've-let-me-down, I-was-counting-on-you tone of voice. He halfway expected to be hit, expected Castiel to grab him and slam him into the nearest wall.

After all, having obedience beaten into him had worked in the past.

When he felt the hand settle onto his shoulder, he flinched. The concept of having Castiel's arm around him had never occurred to him before, but he was being drawn close and the confusion washed over him immediately.

Being hit, he would've understood. Hell, Cas could've slammed him into a wall and he'd have gotten the picture. _Toughen up, be a fighter, stop pissing me off._ Those were messages he'd received before, loud and clear.

But the weight of the hand on his shoulder sent a vulnerable shudder down his spine and he felt a weird noise like a whimper trying to rise in his throat, followed immediately by a thickness like molasses that made it impossible for him to talk. Not that he knew what the Hell to even say. 'Cas, I don't understand, why aren't you beating the shit out of me?' didn't exactly roll off the tongue.

The hand's grasp of his shoulder tightened a fraction and he felt his stomach drop with it. Not being hit had him more hand-shy than he could remember being in his life. Leave it to Cas to find a better way to freak him out. He wondered if that was the tactic.

“Our Father sometimes tests us in... Unfortunate ways,” he heard Castiel say, and he wanted to interrupt, wanted to shout, _don't give me that 'mysterious ways' bullshit, I don't want to hear that from you,_ but he stayed quiet. “While I cannot pretend to know what it is like to sacrifice all of your existence for a battle that isn't your own, especially one that you are unlikely to win...”

This time, he really did wince. _Thanks, Cas._

“I find it... Unpleasant, that you blame yourself.”

_What?_

He opened his eyes, not expecting that and not really prepared to believe it just yet. Cas's focus was aimed at the same painting of Christ that he'd been looking at. Looking at Cas didn't really help when the angel's face rarely changed expression.

“Dean, you must understand something.”

Was he dreaming, or was there warmth and guidance in Cas's tone?

“When God sets a plan in motion, very little can defy it.”

Now he was sure it was withdrawal.

“You have done well. You have rewritten key pieces of the story, to some extent decided your own fate.”

He swallowed hard, watching Castiel speak and stare down the painting of Christ, then looked at his hands. If it was true that he'd gone a good job, why did he feel so worthless? He couldn't remember the last time anyone'd told him he'd done a good job. Maybe Bobby.

“I find your reckless defiance... Admirable.”

He stiffened. That wasn't just praise or a pat on the back, that was a compliment. Almost unable to breathe properly all over again, he lifted his head and looked at Cas. It was an effort not to wipe tear streaks from his face.

The angel – his friend – still watched the painting, but there was a tightness at the corner of those blue eyes that he hadn't seen before. When Cas kept speaking, he didn't interrupt.

“It is never easy, having a parent that controls every aspect of your existence.” A flicker of something else was in the angel's face, but Dean couldn't catch it properly, between his emotions going crazy and the weird feeling in his chest.

And the lack of alcohol, which was starting to rub at him.

“...One could say that you and I had very similar childhoods.”

He forgot about the alcohol. About being upset. About breathing.

“You are brave, strong. A perfect specimen of the reason God created you in the first place. You do what is right, what is just, and sacrifice yourself for your beliefs,” Castiel went on. He couldn't hear it very well over the rush of blood in his ears. “But in order to write your own path, you need to be holding the pen, Dean.”

He would've thought his heart had stopped if he couldn't hear it in his ears.

“You should not hold it against yourself that you succumbed to Alastair's temptation, that Lucifer would walk this Earth again, that you could not save Sam from drinking the demon blood.”

He couldn't understand how Castiel's voice remained level when his entire body was in a chaotically spiraling uproar. It felt like the angel had blended him and was pouring him into a Dean-shaped mold or something. Like he'd been disintegrated and was being glued back together.

“They were all events you could not have changed. You must know that, Dean.”

_Damn, I need a drink._

“You are not weak for lasting thirty years.”

His head was spinning. If he didn't get air soon, he would collapse.

“Men walk this Earth who would not have lasted two minutes.”

The hand on his shoulder turned into an arm properly around him, secured in half a hug, and the tears wanted to start again but he refused. Castiel was the last person he'd expected this from, but the weight on his shoulders felt a little lighter and the ache in his chest had receded a bit.

His hands were still shaking, but that was just a reminder about the alcohol.

Silence wrapped itself around the both of them and he shifted uncomfortably. It suddenly came to mind that they were still in the church, but no surprise choir of angels had descended to haul his ass back to Michael.

He cleared his throat. “So uh, where are the angels?”

It was the first he'd spoken in a while and already he regretted opening his mouth. First, the arm around his shoulders slipped away. And the way Cas looked at him didn't help the twist in his gut, either, those scarily bright blue eyes slanting sideways and the angel pursing his lips a bit.

“I suspect that this moment may have been written.” Castiel glanced toward the ceiling, and he couldn't help but follow the angel's line of sight all the way to the apex of the steeple.

The air – the same air he'd just managed to find again, at most a minute ago – flooded out of his lungs. This time, it just happened to rush out with words attached. “Are you saying that God _wanted me here_?”

“It would seem so.”

 _Well that was just great._ He rubbed the back of his neck, aware that Cas was watching him. It creeped him out, but not nearly as much as the arm around him had.

Their long talk hadn't fixed everything. Hadn't even come close, really. The God thing was creepy, leaving him feeling watched, and he still had no idea what to do about Lucifer. But for some reason it'd soothed him enough for the tears to stop and the ache to die down.

“I need a beer.”

“I strongly suggest you abandon the habit of excess alcohol which you seem to have picked up.”

And, just like that, it was back to normal. He wiped his face, a hurried motion. “I strongly suggest that you bite me.”

“Wouldn't you find that unpleasant?”

_Welcome back, Cas._


End file.
